


Pride, Meet Prejudice (It Won't Be Pretty)

by 2theB2theE2theA



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Awkwardness, Duelling, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-29 09:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2theB2theE2theA/pseuds/2theB2theE2theA
Summary: An jump ahead from another fic I published a while back, called Loves Me Not.Post Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry's dead. So is Lucius Malfoy.Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are sharing a flat, shackled together out of necessity for their survival. That feel when you're forced to live with your sworn enemy...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 
> 
> So I posted the beginning of a similar fanfic a while ago, with the same premise, called Loves Me Not. Getting actual feedback made me so excited that I decided to expand! This fic is slightly different; I hope you guys like it! PLEASE leave comments, suggestions, gentle criticism (I'm still a baby in the world of fic). I love writing dialogue and playing with characters, but it's definitely a work in pro! I hope you enjoy xox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An jump ahead from another fic I published a while back, called Loves Me Not.  
> Post Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry's dead. So is Lucius Malfoy.  
> Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are sharing a flat, shackled together out of necessity for their survival. That feel when there's no alternative but to live with your sworn enemy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I posted the beginning of a similar fanfic a while ago, with the same premise, called Loves Me Not. Getting actual feedback made me so excited that I decided to expand! This fic is slightly different; I hope you guys like it! PLEASE leave comments, suggestions, gentle criticism (I'm still a baby in the world of fic). I love writing dialogue and playing with characters, but it's definitely a work in pro! I hope you enjoy xox

**Chapter 1**

Suddenly they were in. The flat was still and felt heavy with dust. Of course, it had been months now since it was last occupied. Hesitantly they walked in and placed their bags on the floor. Hermione searched in her bag and produced two mugs, which she placed decisively on the countertop, by the kettle. Draco went down the hall with his hands in his pockets, one clutching his wand, to investigate which bedroom was the better. He peered into one, a room painted dirty magnolia, and then the other, a duck-egg blue. He noted the double bed in the blue room and the better view from the window of the magnolia.

Now in the living area, Hermione placed a hand over a part of the wall which looked damp. Paint flecks came away on her fingertips. She stood, looked around her. It was a roof, she thought, trying to smile. When Draco walked into the room and caught her eye, she noticed the resigned disappointment on his face. Mustering civility in voice and expression, she asked if he would like some tea. He refused.

The first evening in the new flat was dreary. The hallway light didn’t work, the kettle was filled with limescale, and Hermione’s wardrobe contained the sad remains of an old woollen scarf harbouring a moth infestation. She and Malfoy scarcely exchanged two words. Instead, each felt drained, grey, tired. After some attempts to make the flat feel lived in they gave up and retreated to their rooms, unapologetic, needing to be alone. Despite all that happened, they hadn’t felt quite so vulnerable in a long while. After the tent, the walls around them were disconcerting. Draco couldn’t hear Hermione as she turned pages noisily, or her heavy footsteps. Hermione almost missed Draco’s rustling, snarling presence. Her room was dim and a light drizzle was frosting the window.

They woke up within half an hour of each other, but Draco was the first to try the shower. Hermione unpacked some essentials from the beaded bag but left most of its contents inside, still edgy, still needing to know she could run if she needed to. She threw a jumper over her old pyjamas and headed to the kitchen for a cup of tea, reminding herself to breathe. As she went past the bathroom she heard the shower curtain crackle and the water hitting the basin, and Draco exclaiming ‘Fuck’ under his breath. Hermione smiled: the water was either too hot or too cold. At least she knew for later.

The living area and kitchen looked marginally more inviting in the morning light. There was sun coming through the window and onto the table, and Hermione noted the shelving unit near the front door. She put down her tea and fetched some books and a poster from her room. She put the books on the shelf and the poster, an old Penguin cover of Jane Eyre, on the wall opposite with a sticking charm. Then she changed the colour of the curtains from their grey and red to a clean off-white. Feeling better, she sat back on the sofa and tried to convince herself that this was home now.

Draco, feeling clean, albeit a little raw from the scalding water, dressed in the comfiest outfit he brought with him: jeans and a crisp t-shirt. He had never owned a pair of slouchy tracksuit bottoms, and didn’t mean to start now. He had changed the wall from magnolia to white last night, but in the light of day he felt keen to experiment. He changed the wall in which the wide window was set to a pale yellow, then to a rosy pink, and settled on a cool grey. The carpet cast off its murky blue behind in favour of a fresher, deeper midnight hue. He looked out of the window for a little while. He saw fields beyond the small garden, shared between the six flats of the building. Beyond the fields were clumps of trees, not quite congealed together enough to be called woods. He was glad he chose this room: Hermione’s faced onto the road by which the flats were reached, and he still couldn’t get used to seeing cars all the time. The fields before him reminded him of home. Real home.

Making for the kitchen and some breakfast, Draco took with him a platter he pinched from home, silver on the outside and red on the inside, and his coat. If he had to live in this dump, he would damn well hang it up next to the door. It was a dump, but it was his dump, after all. He didn’t think of Granger except to hope that she wasn’t in the kitchen.

When they saw each other they looked away, the shadow of a greeting smile on their lips. It was formality, nothing more. They may have missed the noises made by another person last night, but this was day. Draco didn’t speak as he hung up his coat and placed his platter on the table. Hermione sipped tea pointedly. Draco glanced at the newly shelved books but made no comment. So they had both staked their claim.

Instinctively Draco opened the cupboard next to the fridge.

“We don't have any food,” Hermione said from the sofa.

“I know.”

For a few moments nobody spoke.

“I’ll go and get some later. Write down what you want, let’s make a list. Got any galleons— pounds?”

Hermione finished her tea, got up.

“I have a notebook somewhere, hang on,” she said, feeling stupid.

Her voice tailed away into nothing, absorbed by Draco’s silence.

“How much d’you need?” asked Draco when she returned with pen and paper.

“£20 should do it. Just to be safe.”

Nothing from Draco.

“I’ll keep the receipt, obviously. Anyway, there’s no point in stealing from you, now that we, you know. Live together.”

“Ever the honourable Gryffindor, Granger.”

Hermione glanced at him, but his face was impassive. She decided to change the subject. A week in the tent taught her that if there was anything sure to ignite him, it was backchat. It was difficult to get anything done when he was angry. Another deep breath.

“Also, we should think about work. Yeah Malfoy, work. I know you’re rolling in wizard gold, but we can’t afford to change much of that at a time. Like we talked about.”

“I remember, thanks. And why are you assuming I won’t work?”

“Have you ever?”

For the first time since yesterday, they looked each other in the face, challenging. She could see the irritation in his eyes.

“It’s not my fault I’ve never needed to. Merlin knows if there’s a muggle job worth my while. I’ll start looking soon.”

“You know, I think you’d make a good plumber.”

“Your talent for humour always takes my breath away. I will not be picking plums, Granger.”

Hermione smiled discreetly.

In preparation for the shopping trip Hermione dropped two blonde hairs into a couple of inches of poly, watched it turn a dull raspberry colour and downed it like a shot. Tangy. She went to the bathroom in her dressing gown and watched the mirror sink slowly down the wall as she grew five inches taller. She nearly bumped into Draco as she crossed back into her bedroom, and smiled involuntarily at the second of surprise he always displayed when he saw Ava. Enjoying her alter ego’s sinewy body, feeling cat-like, Hermione dressed in a pair of slim jeans and a light jacket.

Draco marched into the kitchen with rarely seen speed when she returned from the supermarket.

“Where’s my stuff?” he asked, looking into the bags on the floor while Hermione filled the kettle for another cup of tea. Draco took things out of the bags and put them on the countertop, a jumbled mess of groceries and toothpaste, shampoo and onions and pasta. Hermione watched him through narrowed eyes.

“We have cupboards you know,” she said finally, arms crossed. Draco stopped, one hand in a bag, the other clutching a bar of Galaxy Caramel.

“I don't see you putting anything away. Where’s the brie?”

“Well, I’m not turning the kitchen into a war zone, either. They ran out of brie.”

Hermione pulled some change out of her pocket and handed it to Draco, along with the receipt. He took it and studied it.

“What the fuck is ‘JS SEL & VIT ACE 60’?”

“Vitamins.”

“Vitamins?”

“You know, like Madam Pomfrey’s general health draft, except a bit less... Potent.”

“Shit muggle knock-off?”

“Not at all, they still work. No need for snobbery, Malfoy.”

“Me, snobby? Tip of the dungheap, muddy.”

“You agreed not to call me that!”

“I’m hungry, okay? You took a bloody age getting this crap and half of it’s not even here. I’m going to have breakfast now. With your permission, of course.”

Hermione didn’t fail to catch the sarcasm in his tone, and looked at him with equal iciness. Although she was hungry, she would rather get out of the kitchen until Draco had gone back to his room.

“Your word evidently counts for fuck all, Malfoy. Permission granted,” she replied.

Back in her room, Hermione fumed silently. One day into leasing the flat, after almost no time, they were bickering again. Malfoy was insufferable and unreasonable, she thought to herself. He was unpredictable and techy, mulish and irritating. Did his parents never teach him to help around the house? Had he ever done his own washing? Cooked his own meals? Wiped the table? Hermione was adamant that she wouldn’t be cleaning up after him. Poor, spoiled Malfoy would have to learn that himself, and darned if she was going to coach him every step of the way. They were the same age, for god's sake, twenty; more than old enough to be self-sufficient. But Hermione checked herself, picturing Malfoy’s parents: that perfect, manicured, blonde pair. Of course they had taught him that he was above all that drudgery. They didn’t keep house elves to show them a good time. He was a baby, Hermione thought. He was a stupid, arrogant baby. She could almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

She removed the concealing charm she had cast over a picture of Crookshanks, and her parents gazed back at her, smiling patiently as Hermione, aged seven, tried to make the camera work. A sweet pang of sadness pierced her stomach. She remembered drying while her dad washed, dropping handfuls of diced carrot into the pot and hearing them plop into the water. Self-reliance was something she had taken for granted. Her parents had shown her what it was to be capable. It certainly wasn’t a smooth road however, Hermione thought with a grin, recalling the look on her mother’s face when she had refused point blank, aged ten, to clean her bedroom.

A nasty rhythmic screeching noise from the kitchen jerked Hermione back from memory lane. Draco had set the fire alarm off.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked him, raising her voice above the noise. Draco was holding a pan, its charred contents smoking copiously.

“Come on, Granger, I thought you were supposed to be clever. I’m cooking,” hissed Draco, a slightly wild look in his eyes as he registered the damage he had done to his breakfast. His face was pale except for the pink blotches on his cheeks showing up livid and angry. Hermione rolled her eyes and opened the nearest window, then pulled out her wand. Soon the smoke began to dissipate, billowing through the window, ushered out by Hermione’s charm. Draco filled the sink with water and dropped the pan in it, bacon and all. Spitting and sizzling, the bacon was extinguished and immediately banished to a watery grave. The fire alarm was silent at last.

“Have you ever... Cooked before?” asked Hermione tentatively. Draco ran his hands through his hair, exasperated.

“I didn’t expect it to be so... Hot,” he said, drawing a shaking hand across his brow.

Hermione failed to repress a grin. Draco caught sight of her expression and immediately flared up again.

“You can get off your high fucking hippogriff, alright?” “I didn’t say anything.” “I can just hear your stupid thoughts, Miss Perfect. So I’ve never had to cook before, ha ha ha.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Malfoy. Who cares if mummy served up three meals a day? All I care about is that the flat’s still standing tomorrow.”

Draco stepped towards Hermione, threatening. The sweat on his face made him look ill. The smell of burning began to get to Hermione, and she opened the window wider. Draco suddenly brought his face close to hers.

“I don't need you lording it over me in my own flat, muddy. And don't you dare bring my mother into it. Ever. Do you understand me?”

Hermione didn’t like the look in Malfoy’s eyes. Hungry and hot, he was the worst version of himself he had been in a long while, perhaps since they began to live alongside each other. Although she longed to retaliate, to prove him wrong, to remind him that it was her flat too, she stopped herself. This was not the way to begin, she reminded herself. He was a trying bastard, but she had managed a week with him in a tent already, with minimal duelling. Someone needed to be the bigger person, and although Hermione felt a hot wave of indignation swell up into her throat, she choked it back down. Now was not the time. It would be like stamping on a wasps’ nest.

Draco himself was finding controlling his anger difficult, as he always had. The humiliation of burning the breakfast he was so looking forward to eating was causing himself to forget the promise he made: arguing with Granger, getting under her skin, challenging her: it was useless. They had always been bitter enemies, on the basis of her friendship with Potter; but also, as he later understood, because of her blood status. He could almost hear his father’s voice, urging him to look past her, not to waste time hating her. True, he had said, all those born of muggle blood are to be despised, but with cold indifference rather than with real fire. Your hatred and your passion should be reserved for those who do you terrible wrong. Why had Draco always felt that the gaze with which his father regarded him was tinged with regret? Or even disgust?

Draco turned to the matter at hand, dismissing Hermione from his mind, albeit with difficulty. The pan was burned and the bacon had stuck fast to it. Rather than take soap and sponge to it, Draco plucked it out of the water by its handle and hurled it through the open window, not waiting to see it land on the ground below.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione works on connections with the past; Draco seeks something to get himself out of mischief

Over the next few days Draco mastered beans on toast, pasta, and roast beef sandwiches. Hermione cooked only when he was not in the kitchen. Both avoided each other wherever possible: Draco lingered in his room until Hermione had gone back to hers after using the bathroom; they made sure to eat and drink at different times so as to avoid awkwardness in the kitchen; they were careful not to spread their possessions throughout the shared areas of the flat. 

For a while, Hermione used up precious hairs by polying up and going out, mainly to avoid the silent indifference of life with Malfoy. The flat was quickly becoming something of a prison. It was the lack of speech and interaction that made Hermione miserable. The pair spoke once a day, if that, and the hours stretched monotonously, painfully, into days. When Hermione realised that they had been in the flat for a week exactly, she was surprised: it felt like it had been three. 

When she wasn’t torturing herself with memories of her friends, Hermione pored over the books she brought with her from Hogwarts and from home. There were some fifty volumes, encompassing transfiguration, charms, dark arts, histories, potion making, necromancy, wandlore, fiction, arithmancy, runes. Questions flooded her mind. There were too many to answer systematically, one at a time. In any case, as soon as she thought she was getting to an answer, the next question pushed itself in front of the last. Hermione recalled the last Battle of Hogwarts, how she had become the flag-bearer of the resistance against Voldemort. But here, in a two-bedroom flat in Wonford, the fight felt a million miles away, hazy, indeterminate. She scarcely knew where to begin. 

She wished she could meet with someone else from the Order, from the D.A., or even just get a message to them. But she recognised the risk. A year trekking over the countryside with Harry and Ron had sharpened her wits to what you could and couldn’t do while you were on the run. Besides, this time wasn't like last time: Hermione’s allies were far away, unable to contact her. She had no backup. Draco had little idea of the pressure she was under, and if he did, he didn't care to help. Despite this, Hermione appreciated the solitude. It enabled her to spend far too much time on the matter at hand: figuring out how to get the allies together and beat Voldemort. 

Draco, on the other hand, was finding it even more difficult to spend so much time in his own company. He had no project to pour all his energy into. He soon became restless and lonely, which quickly morphed into feeling destructive and out of touch. He had hardly spoken to Hermione since the bacon incident. He paced around his room, sometimes picking up a book, sometimes sending coins racing around the room, speeding like seekers after a snitch. He thought of his mother and father. He pictured the Battle, that smokey, disastrous landscape covered in bodies, filled with flashes of light. 

Draco found himself thinking incessantly about right and wrong. Did he make the biggest mistake of his life choosing light over dark? Good over evil? Would he ever be sure that Voldemort’s was the ‘wrong’ side? Often when he came out of his reverie it would be to the realisation that he had been staring blindly out of the window for many minutes, thoughts churning like waves, dragging him under their roar and tumult. There was a tree on the edge of the field, right on his eye line, that reminded him of the Whomping Willow. Sometimes, at dusk, when he glanced out, he thought he saw it move. 

When he wasn’t thinking about the Battle or his mother, or how he was going to survive this period of his life, he was twiddling his thumbs, sweating, having nightmares, and becoming slightly better at cooking every day. Soon, though, something was going to have to give. He needed something to do, a hobby. He asked Granger for some poly, enough to last him a few hours. 

Malfoy left the house as Tom, not sure where he was going, not trusting himself to take the bus. He was self conscious in this new body, always looking around him nervously. Although there was no danger of being recognised in this guise, he was terrified Voldemort would find him. Draco’s memories of personal encounters with Voldemort would be enough to give anybody nightmares for the rest of their lives; he dreamed of Voldemort more often than he saw Hermione.

There was a limited and uninspiring selection of shops in Wonford’s town centre: a little bakery, an independent bookshop, two charity shops and a thriving cafe made up one side of town. Then there was the Co-Op, the Kodak shop and a scruffy branch of Primark. Around the corner from the main section was a supermarket. A weathered WWII memorial stood in the middle of it all, grim and grey. Draco, still feeling extremely conspicuous, headed towards the bookshop. The middle-aged man inside nodded to Draco as he went in. 

As Draco ran a finger across the spines of the books in the ‘Fiction: General’ section, a welcome sense of calm drew over him like a blanket. A volume which appeared to be about magic caught his eye and he took it down. He was two sentences in when it became obvious that it was written by a muggle, and Draco couldn’t help snorting with disdain before snapping it shut. The next book he picked up seemed to be about the paranormal. There was a character called Mulder who, Draco could tell from the off, had nearly as many problems as he had himself. There was something pleasing in the way the writer formed the phrases and drew the characters. Intrigued, Draco read, beginning to sink a little into the space, feeling the tight knot in his chest relax. 

He had been leaning against the shelf behind him for ten minutes when he remembered where he was.  Jamming the book none too gently back on the shelf, Draco thrust his hand into his pocket and retrieved a small oval mirror. Looking into it anxiously, he was inordinately relieved to see Tom looking back at him, his dark eyes shadowed by heavy brows pinched together. He would have to be more vigilant, he reprimanded himself; the effects of poly were time-sensitive, and the repercussions didn’t bear thinking about. Turning this way and that, Draco caught sight of the shopkeeper in the hand-mirror. The man was peering at him oddly. Taking a couple of deep breaths, Draco tried to calm himself down. Would he ever shake the feeling that Voldemort’s servants, death eaters, his father’s friends, were watching him? Perhaps the shopkeeper was one of them, thought Draco wildly, his breath coming shorter and shallower again. He had no plan of escape other than to apparate, but if the man was really just a muggle, doing so would violate the Statute of Secrecy and reveal him to Voldemort. Draco forced himself to think rationally. If the man behind the counter had known who he was, he would have pounced by now. 

Draco turned towards the door. Even if he thought he was safe, it would be best to get out of here.  

“How are you doing today, sir?”

Draco started. He hadn’t expected the muggle man to speak to him. 

“Fine. Thanks,” he said without smiling. 

“Forgive me, my customers always interest me. Not much trade in real books anymore.”

“Where I come from there’s no alternative.”

“Not fallen prey to Amazon? Well, don't hold me in suspense! Where is this fabulous place?”

“Other side of the country. You wouldn’t know it.”

“Try me,” the man said pleasantly, studying Draco with humour in his eyes. 

“I’m afraid I don't have time to chat. Bus, you know,” said Draco, desperate to leave. 

“Of course, of course. Well, I hope to see you again some time, Mr...?”

“Dearlove. Tom.”

“Mr Dearlove. Have a good day now.”

“Thank you.” 

Draco wrenched the door open and strode down the street, hands in his pockets, his jacket collar flicking in the breeze. As the wind hit his skin he realised he was sweating. Although he felt sure he hadn’t been in any real danger, the adrenaline rush had hit him like a brick wall. Why on earth had he told the man Tom’s name? Now he was traceable, more vulnerable than ever. He turned suddenly, half expecting to see the shop owner running up the street towards him. When Draco saw that the street was practically empty aside from him, he shook himself. Get a grip, he muttered to himself, squaring his shoulders. 

He mulled over the encounter in the bookshop, reassuring himself that the man had merely been eccentric and inquisitive. Muggles, he swore on Merlin’s underpants, were the craziest people in the world. No bookshops?  _ Amazon _ ? What on earth could the man have meant? Despite all this, Draco had to admit that he had enjoyed the serenity of the shop. He had never been a swotty know-it-all like Granger (who everyone knew would have slept in the library if such madness were permitted), but he couldn’t deny he loved to read. There was nothing quite like the heft and texture of a good tome, he thought almost cheerfully as he navigated his way back to the bus stop.

Draco came to a sudden halt in the middle of the highstreet. A woman with two heavy shopping bags swerved angrily to avoid him. A thought had leapt into his head: what if he were to work in the bookshop? He chewed it over all the way back to the bus; as he took his seat, careful not to touch the handholds; as he walked up the stairs to the flat. He hung up his coat inside, still thinking. 

Hermione’s accusation had hit a truth: Draco had never had a job. It wasn't that he was worried he wouldn’t be able to get one, or succeed in one. He did not like the idea of belonging to a company, of being one of possibly hundreds who performed tasks like cogs in a clock. He did not enjoy being told what to do. Also, although Hermione strongly advocated it, he did not want to integrate seamlessly into the muggle world. He saw enough of it just walking down the road. Muggles in cars, muggles on billboards, muggle chewing gum stamped into the asphalt. If he wasn't careful he would forget the existence of the world in which he truly belonged, a world in danger of being washed away in strange alcohol, drowning in the scent of strange shampoos and perfumes. He missed home and the wizarding world so much it hurt. It was like knocking back half a bottle of firewhiskey on an empty stomach. 

 

That evening, Malfoy spoke to Hermione for the first time in two days. He told her he had got a job.

“A job?”

She looked more than surprised; she looked suspicious.

“That’s what I said.”

“Job where? When did you get it?”

“Bookshop in the centre of town. Just walked in and asked. You didn’t think people would be lining up to employ the extremely employable Tom Dearlove?”

Hermione looked at him, frowning. A few days ago he had seemed absolutely averse to the idea. Now he was working in a bookshop? Not sure how seriously to take this change of heart, Hermione decided to probe a little further. 

“When d’you start?”

Malfoy missed a beat.

“Start?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Next week. Bloke didn’t specify a time. Why are muggles so vague, Granger? Is it the dramatically reduced brain size?”

“How long did it take you to come up with that one? Is that what you’ve been doing the past few days?”

Malfoy glared at her.

“Thought you’d be pleased. No need to get your wand in a knot at any rate: Malfoy’s going to bring home the bacon.”  

That smirk. That hair, falling into his eyes. Hermione looked away in irritation. 

“Any idea what this job’s going to earn you?”

“We didn’t talk about it explicitly—”

“You talked about it implicitly, did you?”

“Give it a rest, Granger. I got a job, didn’t I?”

“How much d’you think this flat costs to rent per month?”

Draco rolled his eyes. Hermione watched him impatiently as he muttered something inaudible under his breath.

“What was that?”

“It was,  _ for fuck’s sake _ . I know what you’re implying. Stupid Malfoy, never lived alone, whatever. Why don't you just spit it out?”

Hermione took a breath, calculating. Malfoy crossed his arms and waited expectantly. 

“Okay:  _ our _ rent is £412 per month, not including gas or water or anything else. Those cost £75 per month. Which makes a total of £487 per month. Do you have £5,844, Malfoy?”

Malfoy swiftly hid his bewildered frown behind a jibe. 

“On tonight’s show: Muggleborns do Maths!” 

Hermione couldn’t believe it. The stress of trying to figure out how they would keep the flat had been eating at her insides for the past week, and of course Malfoy decided that now was the time to suddenly develop a sense of humour and make jokes about their situation. Hermione had lived with other people before and been self-sufficient, but she had never had to pay rent. And the people she had been living with were her best friends. The flat, the polyjuice potion, the work she was doing from her bedroom to bring down Voldemort—it was too much to handle alone. If Malfoy didn’t start to pull his weight soon, she would have to come up with a plan B. Malfoy would definitely not feature in her life if she could possibly help it. 

“Look, Malfoy,” Hermione said, staring him straight in the eyes. He lifted his chin stubbornly. “I don't know how much your bookshop chum’s agreed to pay you, but I’d be surprised if it was a tenth of our rent. You need to get off your arse and your high hippogriff, and find a better job. I can’t carry all the responsibility on my own, it isn’t fair.”

Part of Hermione wished she’d kept her temper, but the other part wanted to hex Malfoy through the wall. As he gathered himself for a blistering reply, she unfolded her arms, letting her wand hand drift in the direction of her pocket. The movement wasn't lost on Malfoy. Quick as a snake, he drew and disarmed Hermione. He snorted without a trace of humour as he pointed his wand right between her eyes. Hermione’s own wand rolled over a few times on the floorboards before coming gently to a stop at the foot of the sofa.

“Don't pull that shit with me, muddy. I had the misfortune of taking DADA with you, remember?”

Returning Malfoy’s gaze, Hermione sighed inwardly. It had happened again. Another day, another duel. 

Hermione, throughout her life, had been able to get on with a lot of people. She had friends. She had acquaintances. She had people she smiled to in passing. There’s little room for enemies, she always felt. Enemies were people who did not deserve your time, or the benefit of your doubt. Voldemort, Umbridge, Bellatrix Lestrange— these were enemies, people with so little humanity left that it seemed almost sad. 

Then there were the people in between: bullies, criminals, people who didn't know any better. ‘People like that act out of ignorance,’ her parents were fond of reminding her. ‘They were never taught to be better. We’re hard on you because we love you and we want you to grow up to be a good person, a brave person. Pressure is a privilege, darling.’

And then there was Draco. What pressure did his parents put on him? Were his achievements measured in comparison with his father’s? Was his character judged by that of his mother’s family? Was the chance really so tiny that he had been taught that compassion and fair judgement were the best ways to arm yourself in an uncertain world?

Hermione looked steadily at Draco, who was on tenterhooks to return fire with fire. But Hermione was done for the day. She bent to pick up her wand, put it in her back pocket. She turned back to Malfoy.

“Most parents manage to bring up their children not to be bullies. Why couldn’t yours?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco goes job-hunting, while Hermione continues to work towards reconnecting with the Order and her friends...

**Chapter 3**

It was another few days before they spoke again. 

In this time, Hermione put her head down, networking. When she was not putting pins on maps, she was making huge batches of soup and polyjuice potion, stuffing the freezer, just in case. Every morning she looked out of the window like a rabbit coming out of its burrow, scanning for predators. She was reminded of those days in Grimmauld Place, and it was like a kick to the stomach: at the time, scared, isolated and clueless, with nothing but Harry’s impossible visions of Voldemort guiding their every move, the task had seemed hopeless at worst and ridiculous at best. Hermione longed for those days with every part of her. They had been together, the three of them. They had found reasons to laugh, and even when things were at their most bleak, Ron’s poor jokes and Harry’s fortitude against the monstrous mind fused with his own had kept them all going. At night, she fell asleep dreaming of Kreacher’s French onion soup. 

Meanwhile, Draco was bearing out through a crisis of his own making. He somehow felt guilty, even though Granger was clearly in the wrong, screeching about his parents like the demented banshee she was.  He had since been back to the bookshop with a rudimentary CV (a ‘necessity’ for anyone job hunting, Google assured him). Though sparse, he felt it would do the trick: 

  * Experience with dangerous creatures
  * Experience of living with troubled individuals of varied backgrounds [troublesome, in the case of Crabbe and Goyle. Pansy, after he’d slept with her, had also been problematic]
  * Good communication skills
  * Trustworthy and good with money



He handed it confidently to the manager of the shop, who accepted it smilingly. As he read, he furrowed his brow.

“Dangerous creatures? I’m not sure what you mean by that, young man, but I’m not sure it’s a skill you’ll be able to utilise here, I’m afraid. Well, there’s Mr Todd. But he’s calmed down a good deal since his wife passed, God rest her soul.”

Peering curiously over his glasses, the man looked Draco up and down. 

“Where did you say you’re from again?”

“Up north.”

“You’re accent’s remarkably faint. From the city, perhaps? They don't tend to have much of the twang in those parts. Not when I lived there, anyhow. I suppose it might’ve changed in thirty-odd years.” 

“My parents never had the accent. I suppose I just failed to pick it up at school.”

“Right-o. Well. As for the rest then...” 

Draco, feeling confident, waited for the offer. Perhaps it would cover half the rent after all. He had been dying to prove Granger wrong since their argument. He needed new muggle clothes. And he wanted a subscription to The Daily Prophet too, once he convinced the local newsagent to stock it. He was still working on that one.

“I’m afraid you’re not quite what we’re looking for, Tom. Perhaps if you applied in a couple of months’ time... This time of year is rather quiet for us, you see...”

Nonplussed, Draco’s suave confidence dropped away. Looking at the man somewhat wildly, he asked if he was sure. 

“Like I said, young man. Generally we like to see that employees have a good range of experience on their resume before we take them on. Policy, you understand.”

Draco, beginning to detest the man, nodded vigorously. He held out his hand for the CV. Dismayed, the man handed it back, trying to explain, to apologise, but Draco cut him short.

“I understand. I’m not from here. I haven’t done the right things. Thank you. Goodbye.”

Once around the corner from the bookshop, Draco cursed under his breath. Granger was right—worse than right. The bastard didn’t even give him the consideration he was owed. Draco began to predict the outcome of his failure: unable to pay his half, Granger would throw him out. Alone and vulnerable, he would run out of poly, be recognised by someone from the magical world and tossed to Voldemort, meat on a string. 

These lugubrious musings made for a dismal bus ride home. On the way, Draco tore his CV carefully and methodically to pieces. As the bus passed a lake to the right, Draco reached through the narrow window and opens his hand, watching the scraps of paper flutter into the bus’s slipstream, whirling, before landing on the water.

 

Despite her initial efforts, Hermione was beginning to flag. She had started by trying to map supporting members of the DA and Order who (she believed) were still alive, but this was quickly becoming as difficult as it was depressing. She was forced, continually, to remember the deaths of friends, teachers and acquaintances. The hardest of these to bare, the most extraordinarily painful is, of course, losing Harry. [battle/moment of death flashbacks?]

But now was not the time to allow herself to feel, not when friends still living were also in hiding, in limbo, waiting to be able to live again. Hundreds, possibly thousands of people were in her position, Hermione reminded herself. Although the tide of her emotions rose and ebbed, Hermione managed to keep her feet dry. Life as the magical world knew it was on hold, she realised. They all needed an aim, a focus. They needed to take control. 

Hermione stayed up later and later every night. She scanned papers, muggle and magical. She primarily relied on The Times, The Daily Prophet and the Aggripian Review, a lesser-known but widely read magical paper which focused on no-bullshit news in the north of England. She was looking for any hint, any trace of Dark interference, any tiny slip or sign which might tell her what Voldemort was up to, or even if he was in control of all magical press. She was also looking for mention of anybody she knew, death reports or sightings, on the side of the good or bad. Such close analysis of these papers were by nature harrowing and delicate, and they began to take their toll on Hermione. She dreamed in newsprint. 

Alongside newspaper-scanning, Hermione was building a growing collection of files, information logging all those she knew to be dead or alive, those she believed may be in hiding, and those she believed have switched sides. She became borderline-obsessive: even if some tidbit of information didn't seem useful at the time, she might need it in the future. She drank mug after mug of coffee and schemed. She rarely saw Malfoy, other than when they were using the kitchen at the same time. 

 

Draco decided, after the bookshop setback, to get a job at the bakery. After a little more research on CVs, he drafted a new one, and headed out with grim determination. 

The feeling of leaving the flat, walking down the stairs and onto the path, handing over some coins and travelling on the bus, had become precious and exhilarating. Draco breathed a little deeper, having escaped the stale air in his room. The flat still felt unlived in, the walls still mostly bare and the cupboards scantily stocked, as if they might leave at any minute. It had no character or permanence, as if to proclaim the polarity of its inhabitants. Granger never left her room. She might be able to survive looking at the same four walls every day, but he couldn’t. 

Since their argument over the rent, Granger conceded that it might be possible to cover a portion of the rent with wizard gold, if they changed it inconspicuously and sparingly. Draco was very much cheered by this idea. On his way to the bakery he popped into the Co-op, emerging five minutes later with a packet of Monster Munch and a can of Sprite. 

The woman in the bakery seemed just as nonplussed by his CV as the bookshop man had been, despite its redrafting. She bit the piercing in her bottom lip as she reread it, glancing at him every minute or so. 

“So...” She began. “You, um, have any retail experience? Ever used a till?”

“I’m afraid not, no. But I’m a fast learner. I can’t imagine having much difficulty with it.”

The woman nodded slowly. 

“I’m just—it’s good to see that you have a ‘good moral compass’. That’s, uh, very important obviously, but I’m not sure it’s directly relevant here. Again, quick reflexes are... Useful. Could I just—there’s nothing on here about previous employment?”

“The skills you have highlighted there are transferable skills, they recommend me as an employee with similar ideals. And I’m afraid I don't have record of previous employment. I recently moved here from elsewhere and I’m not able to speak about the job I had there. Security reasons, you understand.”

Draco meant this to be impressive, desirable. Unfortunately, the woman did not see it as such. She gazed at Draco with the trace of alarm.

“I’m sorry, Mr Dearlove. You’re not really what we’re looking for just now. However, I could take your details, you know, in case something opens up?”

Annoyed but attempting to retain a veneer of indifference, Draco shrugged his jacket back on. 

“Sure,” he agreed pleasantly. “Just send an owl—any mail to Flat 15 Sedge House, Bettes Road, Wonford, Exeter, EX2 8PZ. I must go, goodbye.”

Before she could answer him, Draco left the woman with his second unsuccessful CV. He barely stopped himself from slamming the door. 

Having seldom had to work for anything, failure was not a sensation Draco was well-accustomed to. The task given to him by Voldemort, before it was casually suggested his life depended on it, had seemed almost like a game. True, Dumbledore was an old man, frail of body even if still formidable of mind, but Draco had relished the idea of a project whose main strategy was, essentially, problem-solving. Until things had gone wrong, he had derived satisfaction and pride from the knowledge that he was raising his mother and father up in the eyes of the only person they craved praise from. Until the last day of the task he hadn’t thought it would ever result in the death of his headteacher. 

Back in the flat, Draco was determined to sulk. Mixing himself a cup of lumpy hot chocolate, he resolved to stew on the sofa feeling sorry for himself. The thought of having to beg for a pittance in some bloody muggle hellhole made him want to throw something. This was what the great name of Malfoy was reduced to, he thought. If father could see me now. 

Suddenly Granger appeared, pyjama-clad. Draco watched as she rummaged in the freezer drawer, pulled out a prepackaged meal, dumped it upside down onto a plate and put it in the microwave. This done, she placed both hands on the worktop as if to prop herself up, her back to him. Now that he was looking at her properly for the first time in almost weeks, he could see that she has put on weight. Her soft figure had filled out, her hair was dull, her skin was dry— the backs of her ankles looked like they had been dusted in a fine layer of flour. What once was dark and smooth was now dusty and pale. Draco couldn’t remember the last time Granger had left the flat. He couldn't remember the last time she spoke to him with real fire. He had been living with her for weeks now, and he didn’t have the faintest idea of what she did all day in her bedroom. Annoyed with himself, he considered this in light of the nature of their exit from Hogwarts. What if Granger had been somehow plotting with what was left of the Order, right under his nose, for nearly three weeks? 

The microwave pinged. Hermione retrieved the plate mechanically, took a fork out of the drawer to her right, and turned around—to see Malfoy sitting on the sofa with a mug of something, studying her with interest. 

The sight was so unsettling, so rare, that Hermione almost did a double-take. Trying not to let her surprise show, she began to walk back to her bedroom. Then Malfoy spoke up. 

“What d’you do all day, Granger?”

Something cold and hard dropped into Hermione’s stomach. Malfoy sounded calm; this was a delusion. Malfoy, at any given time, was about as relaxed as a shackled dragon. 

“I read,” she replied evenly, continuing towards the door. 

“Figures. Why should you get a life now, after all? You can take the bowtruckle out of the tree, but you can’t take the tree out of the bowtruckle, eh Granger?”

Stopping, Hermione turned to consider Malfoy, head on one side. 

“What about you, Malfoy? How’s the job going?”

“Job?”

“You told me you got a job in a bookshop. That was bullshit, was it?”

“They didn’t treat me with the respect I deserve, so I quit.”

Malfoy wilted slightly under Hermione’s accusing look.

“Right. Any plans to get a real job, sometime very soon?”

“Muggles wouldn’t know a prime employee if it hexed them between the eyes.”

“You’re having trouble, then. Why didn’t you just ask for help? You certainly haven’t forgotten my parents are muggles.”

“I’d rather die—”

Hermione cut him off, rolling her eyes and setting her plate on the countertop. 

“Oh, save the drama, Malfoy. Have you written a CV?”

“Of course, I’m not an idiot,” he said contemptuously. “The CVs aren’t the problem. The muggles have some crackpot idea that—”

“CVs? Plural?”

Draco summoned the first draft and fished the second out of his coat pocket. He handed them over to Hermione. She took them, read them, turned them over as if looking for additional information. Draco began to down his hot chocolate although it was a little too hot, scorching his tongue. 

“These are terrible,” said Hermione flatly, still looking them over. 

Draco nearly spat out his drink.

“You wouldn’t get a job in a warehouse packing boxes with either of these. Do you not have any skills to speak of at all? Besides a ‘good moral compass’, I mean. Which we both know is bullshit.”

Before Draco could protest, she went on, 

“I mean, these are actually pretty funny. Have you considered a role in stand-up?”

“I asked you for advice for fuck’s sake, not a roasting. Just tell me how to write a better one, and get that superiority complex checked out,” said Malfoy, incensed. 

Hermione regarded him with raised eyebrows.

“Actually, you didn’t ask for advice. And I think we can both agree I’m not the one with the superiority complex, Malfoy.”

There was a very tense silence. Although he couldn't stand Granger’s tone, he didn't want to blow his chances of getting her to help him. She had to; he knew she was anxious about the flat. His having a job was as crucial to her as it was to him. 

He was more right than he knew. Hermione was, at this very moment, weighing her irritation against her anxiety. Keeping the flat, being able to fund their lives here together, was only secondary to her tracking project; besides, a full week alone with Malfoy in a tent in the country had very nearly ended in disaster. She didn't think she could stand more of that if they were forced to move out. There was nothing for it: resolved, Hermione addressed Malfoy again. 

“Budge up and shut up. I’m only going to say this once, so you’d better listen the first time. Okay?”


End file.
